


Fever

by DistantStorm



Series: Never The Right Time [2]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, Pre-Relationship, cayde bails to play poker, concerned!zavala, sick!suraya, steelponcho, the Farm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 11:59:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16492175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/DistantStorm
Summary: For the prompt: "If you were really okay, you wouldn't have fainted." Suraya is sick. Zavala finds himself in a compromising position to help. Rarepair.





	Fever

She's been feeling woozy for a few days now. It's nothing she hasn't dealt with before; It's just a cold. She keeps away from everyone as best she can, tries to stay hydrated, and attempts to wait it out.

The weather has been wet and cold, raining non stop. Her poncho is waterproof enough, but it's not a tarp - despite what Cayde says. She coughs into the crook of her elbow. Her head feels like it's full of cotton, and her throat is sore and scratchy. But, the comms pick up a report of Fallen in the vicinity, and they're stretched pretty thin, so it looks like she's got work to do.

* * *

It takes most of the day to track down the group of dregs in the surrounding forest. The rain provided decent cover for both friend and foe, thundering down without pause. She eventually got the lot of them, miles away from the Farm but still wholly threatening. The walk back was the hard part. Her addled brain was having a hard time determining if it were hot or cold, and if she turned her head too quick, she felt like the ground was coming up to greet her.

A couple times, she leans against a tree for a minute, just one, to gather her bearings. It makes no sense to her how she returns after dark.

\-----+++++-----

He absolutely won't admit that he's worried. Cayde is giving him The Look™ and has waggled his eyes suspiciously at least four times since they've decided to sit at the fire pit on the southernmost edge of the Farm. He keeps looking in the direction of the trees, listening intently, just in case anyone needs help.

Not because Suraya Hawthorne left this morning on patrol and has not A) checked in, or B) returned, and it has been nearly ten hours.

“She can take care of herself, Zavala,” Cayde says precisely when Zavala suspects his brows knit together with yet more worry. “Relax.”

He covers his right arm with his left hand, feels for the healed injury there. The scar is soft and a shade of pale blue that blends in with his skin. He likes the reminder, even if he isn't thrilled that he has the scar in the first place. She insists it will fade out of existence, anyway, with time.

There's a hoarse, chest-rattling wheeze from the west, and the sound of footsteps come from one of the beaten paths. Whomever it is, they are stumbling. He sees the glint of a familiar barrel as Suraya Hawthorne drops her rifle and pack indiscriminately on the ground in the rain and sways toward the fire. The fire pit is sheltered enough by the trees that it's relatively dry.

“Heeeey, guys,” She slurs and Cayde sniggers, shaking his head.

“You have one too many, Poncho? I thought you were out on patrol.”

To Cayde's right, Zavala is fighting the tight feeling in his gut that screams something is wrong.

She laughs, and it's a weird sound, like she finds Cayde far funnier than he has any right to be. Then, abruptly, she looks around, like she's just woke up from a crazy dream.

“Is…” She looks unsure, blinking slowly as she looks toward the fire, “it hot or is it just me?”

Zavala stands, meaning to approach her where she is just under the canopy of trees.

“Hawthorne, you have been in the elements all day. Are you alright?”

There’s a bit of a delay, but she makes a sound between a scoff and blowing a raspberry. Cayde’s eyebrow plates creep up towards his horn at an alarming rate. “Yeahhh, 'm fiiiine,” She waves a hand. “Jus’ hot.” There's another shuffle forward, less productive, and then another cough.

And oh, that cough. It makes his chest hurt just hearing it. “Hawthorne?”

Her head whips in his direction and he sees her eyes clear for the slightest of seconds... right before they roll back into her head and her body crumples.

Lightning fast reflexes allow him to catch her before she lands in the wet grass. Her lashes flicker and her eyes try to open again, but to no avail. He can feel the heat rolling off of her in waves, through the non-metal parts of his gear. It seems like a bad sign, considering she's wearing rain-soaked clothing that should be chilled like the air around them.

“Cayde,” The Titan hisses, “Fetch someone to evaluate her,  _now._ ”

The Exo perks up at the order, running toward the tent village that makes up the majority of the Farm like his life depends on it. The Awoken shifts her weight and tucks his left arm under her knees so he can carry her inside where it is warm and dry.

He realizes when he gets her inside the otherwise unoccupied farmhouse that he has to get her out of her wet clothing. Despite priding himself on cool professionalism, something about propping her body against his while he attempts to disrobe her makes him sweat. He bites his lip with no one coherent around to see it, and endures. First the poncho, which falls to the floor with a wet squelch, then he lays her back on the bed and attempts to remove wet socks and boots. She begins to stir, and he hopes he can get her awake enough to prevent him from having to complete this task for her.

Above him, it's like someone flipped the lights on in her brain, and Zavala barely dodges her foot as she tries to kick him. He recoils and rises to his full height, regarding her warily.

“Hawthorne, you are ill,” He says, palms low and out in a measure like he's trying to tell a wild animal not to bite. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.”

She looks down and blinks several times. The fog in her brain temporarily recedes. “I - wait, what're you doing here? How did I get back?”

His eyes widen. Without asking for her permission, he puts his hand against her forehead, humming a concerned note at just how hot her forehead is. He doesn't comment on the fact that her eyes slip closed in blissful relief when he does. “How long have you been sick?”

“Mmm…” She flops her hand around. “Couple days. But I'm fine. Totally okay.”

Instead of answering, he offers her a hand to pull herself upright, and she does so teetering precariously.  He quirks a brow at her and she frowns.

“If you were really okay,” He says when she cants forward, catching her with a hand on each of her deltoids, “You wouldn't have fainted.” The words are quiet and full of mirth, and he thinks she might be out again until she looks up at him, blushing spectacularly, since she was absolutely not that red a minute ago.

“Don't tell me I fainted into your arms like some damsel in distress,” She says meekly. Her eyes are glossy and fever-touched, but there's something else in them, too. Something trusting. “It's just a cold.”

The slightest upturn of his lips has her scowling. He chuckles, “Despite how Cayde would tell it, you fainted without discretion for who would catch you, if anyone. Your dignity is still intact.” His eyes flick up to hers, and she sees a playful streak in them that she wants to hold onto, the voice of reason telling her no, not to instigate the one falling prey to the fever. “I will defend your honor, milady,” Zavala kneels, one hand over his heart like some knight (she wonders if are they glorified Titans or if it’s the other way around) and she shorts, trying not to giggle. “But Cayde, sadly…”

“Y’know, for a miserable bastard, that smile of yours is kind of charming. Tell anyone I said that,” She coughs, “And I’ll tell them I was delirious. Because I’m pretty sure I am if I think your mug is somethin’ special.” She shivers and the moment breaks, his concern winning out over banter.

Zavala tuts, and his fingers reach for the hem of her shirt. “Arms up,” He whispers. She is too tired to argue and complies. He peels the wet garment from her. She shivers, goosebumps dotting down bronze arms. He rubs them gently once her shirt joins her poncho on the floor.

Suraya manages to get the belt and buttons of her pants undone, without much difficulty, while Zavala returns to untying her boots. He hooks two fingers into her belt loops and tugs and literally looks anywhere but at her because he is still flesh and bone and she is wild and free and hips and thighs and Traveler take him, he is doomed.

Only one flimsy pair of black underwear and a brutally abused chest plate remain. The effort is having an effect on her though, and she knows it. “There should be clothes in that trunk,” She says, between coughing fits. “Just grab whatever.”

It only takes him a second to locate the trunk in the corner with a paltry collection of clothes belonging to the woman. He grabs the first pair of underwear and shirt he sees, not wanting to be accused of being some pervert snooping around in her things.

She takes the underwear first, and Zavala hastily retreats to the hallway before her sickness-addled brain decides she should strip bare in front of him, which, it seems, she was ready to do. Not that there's much privacy in this wayward camp, or it's anything he hasn't seen before, but something about this is different and he really cannot afford to think on why that is right this second.

Cayde’s voice crackles over the local comms, and the Commander is immediately thankful for the choice he's made. He almost blushes at the thought of the Hunter catching them in such a compromising state.

 _“Sorry to put you in such a bind, amigo,”_  Cayde calls,  _“Buuuut, there’s a bit of an emergency situation over here at the triage station. Some lady is giving birth. Sounds horrible. But, all the medics are occupied. They said to make sure she rests and give her a fever reducer. And then, y’know, call them if she can’t breathe or something. Poncho should be totally fine, she’s just overdoing it - sound like anyone else we know? Ring any bells? Ah well. Have fun fussin’ over her. I’m definitely going to go work on Vanguard Stuff and definitely not join the poker tournament happening in the barn. Smooches!”_

The connection cuts before Zavala can get a word in edgewise, and he grumbles under his breath. At least if Ikora were here, she’d have actual assistance. He doesn’t even know what her temperature is. Certainly there’s some matrix for medication and time or something, he feels like he can remember that from early on in the City Age, when the refugees were coming in…

“Uh, Zavala?”

The tentative tone shakes him from his thoughts, and he returns to her room. “Hawthorne, Cayde said-” All the air leaves his lungs as if she’d punched him in the gut. She’s laying on the bed, panting with exertion from trying to undo the corset style ties that cinch her chest guard onto her frame.

  
She squirms. He does his damnedest to keep his eyes on her face and not on the expanse of toned muscle and creamy skin between panties and the guard, or the heaving of her chest. If he’s being honest, the flush on her cheeks that travels down to - nope, not a safe topic either.

“Okay. I know I’m the worst,” She all but moans in discomfort, “But I started undoing it and I knotted it somehow this morning because I was too sick to give a shit and now I don’t have the energy to figure it out, and I can’t tie it back up without stabbing myself in the side with one of the broken pieces.” She points out the slivers of boning that are jabbing her in the side along her ribcage. It very obviously needs replacing. Her eyes are pleading. “Help.”

That wistful not-smile is back and he shakes his head very minutely. “Remember how you called me the mess?”

She sighed. “I’m the mess. Is that what you want to hear?”

“It does help,” He replies, taking the two steps necessary to bring him beside the bed. “I am just unlacing the ties?”

“Yeah.” She shifts and sits up, to give him room to work with. He gulps silently as he sees the valley between her breasts come into view. She did say she was able to loosen it somewhat, he recalls as he forces himself to look away.

“This isn’t some rouse to seduce me, is it?” He asks, sinking onto the mattress behind her and evaluating the tangle of strap and ties.

“Yes. I got myself sick so I could throw myself at you,” She drawls sarcastically as he works out the knot. “Seriously though. If I was trying to seduce you, don’t you think I’d be telling you to call me Suraya instead of Hawthorne? Make it a little more personal?”

“True,” He concedes, his breath on her neck. With the knot free, the main closure gapes a little, and his fingers graze her side as he unfurls the cording. Light, is her skin soft. “But I think it’s working, Suraya.”

He knows he doesn’t imagine her gasp.

One hand goes to the center of her chest, holding the armor in place to prevent any accidental exposure, and she rolls over to her knees to look at him. “Zavala,” She warns.

He closes his eyes and berates himself. Idiot, he thinks to himself. “Forgive me,” He says. “I should not have-”

Her thumb grazes his lip. It’s so gentle he can’t help but press his lips into the caress, turn his head into her open palm. Her chest tightens from something that isn’t a cough she’s holding back.

“We can’t,” She tells him, firmly, pulling away. She knows how it looks, in her underwear, practically splayed out in front of him. Sick or not. Neither of them can afford this weakness, and she knows it. They are the very antithesis of each other. “This can’t happen. I... I’m sorry.”

“No apology necessary, Hawthorne,” He says, face blanker than she’d ever seen. It hurts more than she expected it to. “You require rest to get well. I will send someone to bring you a fever reducer and leave you to it.”

“Zavala, I-”

He gets up immediately, heading for the door. A white-blue hand clenches over the trim of the door frame, and he turns like he wants to say something different, maybe even argue with her, but he only sighs.

“Feel better.”


End file.
